by Daniel Wyatt
One more time!
He pushed, he shoved, he swore under his breath, but he still couldn’t get out. Landing in the cockpit seat, he decided that the conventional method of evacuating an aircraft was not going to work. So, he heaved back on the stick to send the nose up. The fighter climbed until it stood on its tail ... and stalled. It took perfect coordination to complete the next step. As the ME-110 hung motionless for a brief, split-second, Schubert jumped into the night.
The slipstream tore the briefcase from his grasp. But at least he was free. Tumbling at first, he managed to control his descent by spreading his body out.
Then he counted to ten ... a bit too fast ... and pulled the cord.
TWENTY-FIVE
Berlin, Germany
Heinrich Himmler lifted his office telephone receiver and held it to his ear.
“Herr Reichsfuehrer. This is Geis.”
“Yes, Geis. What is it?”
“Hamburg has just received a message from Denise. Schubert did not return to her. That is all she reported.”
“Any word on the submarine and Lieutenant Steider?”
“Nothing, Herr Reichsfuehrer. No one has been able to reach them.”
“Return to Berlin, directly,” Himmler said, then hung up. The news was not good. Where was Hess? Where was Schubert? Had they crossed paths?
* * * *
Munich, Germany
Karlheinz Pintsch stalled at his home to give Hess time to return. But it was no use. Time had run out. The Reichsfuehrer was long overdue and he would not come back. He was on his way to Britain or ... Pintsch didn’t want to think about the negative possibilities. Instead, he ordered Hess’s chauffeur to drive him to the train station, where Pintsch issued another order, to hook up Hess’s private coach to the train leaving for Berchtesgaden.
While the work was being done, Pintsch walked the crowded platform, sprinkled with soldiers, airmen, military policemen, and their wives and girlfriends. Suddenly, Pintsch had a premonition that he would never see his superior again. And because of that it would only be fitting that he should carry out the Deputy Fuehrer’s last request and take the letter to Hitler.
But what kind of mood would he be in?
* * * *
Near Eaglesham, Scotland
Schubert came down hard in a field of short, grazing grass. He tried to stand, but found it too difficult. He had sprained his ankle when he hit the ground. Not only that, his back hurt from scraping the rudder on bailing out. To make matters worse, the wind was billowing his parachute and dragging him on his knees across the damp field.
“Who are you?” a voice broke the night air. The only other sound was the dying ME-110 engine overhead.
Schubert ignored the voice for the moment, concentrating more on trying to rise to his feet. He finally broke free of the chute and let it drift away. The man had a pitchfork with him and came within arm’s reach. “Help me, please. I am hurt,” Schubert said. He got up on one leg and placed his hands on the man’s shoulders for support. It eased the agony. Schubert stood at least a foot taller than the man he took to be a middle-aged farmer.
The farmer stepped back. “Are you a German?”
“Yes,” Schubert replied with his German accent. “I am a German. I want to go to Dungavel Castle. I must see the Duke of Hamilton.”
“What do you want with that silly bugger?”
“I have an important message for him.”
“That figures. He always did love you Nazis.”
Then a loud crunch caught their attention. The Messerschmitt had crashed in the distance, lighting up the sky with a fiery flash.
“Is that a German plane?” the farmer asked.
“Yes,” Schubert winced, attempting to stay standing on his own. “It’s a Messerschmitt 110.”
“Were there any more in the plane?”
“No. I flew alone.”
“Are you armed?”
“I have no weapons. I have come in peace.”
“Yeah, I bet you have.”
An elderly man approached them, stopped a good twenty feet back, and said, “What’s happened? Who’s out there?”
“There’s a German flier here,” the farmer answered his neighbour. “Get some soldiers.” He turned to Schubert. “Come, lean on my shoulder. My house is over the rise.”
Helped away by the farmer, Schubert turned back to the parachute lying limp in the field. “I can’t leave that. I owe my life to it.”
“I’ll get it for you as long as you promise me you won’t move.”
“I promise.”
Schubert watched the farmer fighting with the large sheet of parachute silk, until he was finally able to roll it up and tuck it under his arm. “Thank you,” Schubert said, as the farmer returned.
Each step over the rise was sheer torture for Schubert. Inside the house, an elderly woman in a patched grey nightgown held the door open. She was old and tiny and wore her white hair flipped back in a bun. Although she kept her distance, she seemed curious at the sight of this hobbling stranger in her place.
“My God, you are a German!” she exclaimed.
Schubert bowed to her. “Yes, madam. I am indeed a German.”
“We’d better go in there,” the farmer said.
The living room was lit by a single bulb hanging from a plaster ceiling. The farmer motioned Schubert towards a large leather armchair with wide cushions. The old woman followed the two men in. To Schubert, it was plain that the chair was the finest piece of furniture in the room, and one meant for a prominent visitor or head of the house.
“You may sit there.” The farmer pointed. “Welcome to my house. I am David McLean. This is my mother.”
Schubert dropped his sore and tired body into the chair. “I am very pleased to meet the both of you. My name is Captain Alfred Horn.”
Mrs. McLean smiled. “Why don’t I get us all a cup of hot tea?”
“Yes, do that, mother.”
Schubert turned to his captor, and winced. “I have an urgent message for the Duke of Hamilton. Please take me to him at once.”
“The soldiers will be here. They will deal with all that.”
“How far away is Dungavel Castle?” Schubert wanted to know.
“Twelve miles, as the crow flies.”
“Would you be so kind as to drive me there?”
McLean shook his head. “I’m only a civilian, although I fought in the last war. I was in the Highlanders at Arras.”
Schubert recalled some of Hess’s World War I background that had been fed to him at Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin. “I too was in the Battle of Arras.”
“Yeah,” McLean grunted. “But on the other side.”
A hush fell over the room. Schubert looked away, trying to think of what to say next. So far, he was certain that the farmer had not recognized him as Hess. The woman entered with the tea.
Just then someone pounded at the door. “Open up, David,” a voice yelled. “We’ve come for the Kraut.”
McLean left his seat and opened the door. Brandishing an outdated World War I pistol, the leader, a frumpy man in civilian clothing, burst into the living room, surrounded by other men, and glared at the German in the flight suit. Schubert set his tea down and smiled at them.
“What are you doing here?” the leader asked, pointing the gun at Schubert’s head.
Schubert could tell the man was nervous. “Well, I didn’t come a thousand miles just for a cup of tea.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who else is with you?”
“No one. And will you please put that gun down. Your hand is shaking severely. I flew alone, from Germany. My name is Captain Alfred Horn. Please, you must take me to Dungavel Castle. I must see Wing Commander the Duke of Hamilton before it’s too late. Do you know him? I have an extremely important message for him.”
The man looked at McLean then back to Schubert, his gun hand shaking all the more. “Get your bloody hands up, you Kraut bastard!”
TWENTY-S
IX
London, England — May 11
Roberta Langford left the train station after midnight and strained her eyes for the sight of a taxi. Cars were actually moving out there. The transformation from the bright lights inside the restaurant to the inky London streets caught her off guard at first until her eyes grew accustomed to the change. After a few seconds, she began to distinguish the outline of a taxi coming towards her. Like a few million others in the city, she had to live with the blackout. In her trips to the big city, however, she had never really gotten used to it.
She was back in London, the city of smelly exhausts and smoke odours and sand-bagged buildings. Parts of the city had been razed by German bombers, but life still carried on with a stiff upper lip. London was surviving and evolving at the same time. Langford knew of London girls who, when going out for the evening, always took their nightgowns or pyjamas with them, just in case their return route was bombed in the night and they couldn’t make it back. Despite the wartime inconveniences, London was still home to the redhead cryptographer from Bletchley.
Langford hailed the taxi with a shout and a wave. With her one suitcase, she got in the back seat. The driver, a stubby old man, jammed the column into gear. She gave the address of her parents’ home in the west end, then leaned back into the soft padding of the seat. She was drained. As she dozed in and out of sleep, she thought of Arthur, the man she once loved, or maybe even still loved. That was the ironic thing about the situation. She still loved him now, more than ever, knowing that she probably couldn’t have him. Maybe she could get him back if he knew she was pregnant. She thought of her parents. What would she say to them? Well, mother, father, I went and got myself a wee bit pregnant, you see. So sorry. I hope you’re not disappointed with me...
The taxi continued on its way until ... long, bright, blue-white searchlights suddenly flicked on and probed the sky like tentacles. The old man ground the taxi to a screeching halt and gawked through the windshield. Sirens wailed. Cars stopped. Pedestrians ran across the street. Langford rolled down her window. Anti-aircraft fire opened up and exploded into the star-filled sky. A woman shrieked. Then another. Langford looked around in horror. They were caught in the middle of a bombing raid! The driver quickly pulled the taxi over to the curb. She had never been in the midst of a bombing raid before. And she was never so scared in her life.
“Come on, missy. We can’t stay here,” the driver said in a composed voice. This was obviously not the first time for him. “We’ve got to get ourselves to the tube.”
Langford knew he meant the underground railway. Everyone in London called it the tube. But she was not familiar with the side streets the driver had been taking.
“How far is it?” she asked
“A few streets down and around to the right, missy. Follow the crowd.”
“A few streets!”
He turned over his shoulder to see her reach for her suitcase. “Never you mind that. Leave it!”
Langford ignored him and grabbed it anyway. On foot, she melted into a sea of dark figures flowing in the same direction in an orderly manner. Overhead, she picked out the outlines of the enemy planes in their ragged V-formations at the end of the pencil-shaped searchlights. The shells burst in white puffs. It was like flock shooting for the ground gunners — hit or miss. But they were badly outnumbered. There had to be hundreds of planes. Engines throbbing in unison, the invaders flowed over the great capital city. More and more bombers appeared. From what she could tell, the Luftwaffe were concentrating on the east side. Then the bombs began to explode closer. The closer they came, the quicker the pace of the crowd picked up. Langford ran with it. Before long her legs were sore and she was coughing. She stopped by the edge of a brick building and reached for a handkerchief to pat her perspiring face. The tube had to be close now because the crowd was very thick.
Then she took a breath and turned the corner, only to fall. In the darkness, two people stumbled over her and she was stepped on several times. Aching, she picked herself up. The crowd was squashing her. Then the tube entrance came into view. At last. She saw explosions in the distance, hurtling flames into the sky, in stark contrast to the blackout. Two airplanes, both on fire, headed to earth as if they were falling stars. Were they friend or foe? Everything was happening all at once: the red, white, and blue colours of flames and searchlights, the stars overhead, the unique hum of German engines, the crackling of anti-aircraft, the white puffs in the sky.
In the time it took her to run from the taxi to the tube, the German Luftwaffe had rained terror and destruction onto the city. She had been raised in a proper English home, where coarse language was not tolerated. But she wasn’t at home now. She looked up at the sounds of war, shook her fist, and uttered words she thought she’d never say in her life.
“You sons of bitches!” she whispered, her teeth clenched. She said it to the Luftwaffe bombers ... to the RAF who let them through ... to Hitler and his henchmen who started this war ... and to the anti-aircraft batteries who weren’t knocking the planes down. “You damn sons of bitches!”
“Here they come!” a young woman shouted, then disappeared with her male companion, a Royal Navy officer in dress blues, down the steps. Langford wondered if the woman had her pyjamas with her.
The crowd slowly pushed its way down the concrete steps like a huge ocean wave. Outside, the whistle of bombs sliced the air, followed by detonating bursts. More women screamed. Langford felt dizzy as she took to the steps slowly, edging her body along the wall. Down they all went into the belly of London until the bottom of the entrance opened into two long platforms to either side of a tunnel of underground rails.
Langford had to stop and stare. It was like another world. Under the curved walls, human beings covered the platforms, and with them were their belongings — cots, mattresses, bed sheets, tables and chairs, and food. Most were homeless, bombed out of existence months ago. The sour smell of cigarette smoke, dirty bodies, and urine laced the air. The place was a breeding ground for a typhus outbreak. For the many nights since the Blitz began nearly a year before, men, women, and children had to vacate their homes in the evening and dart for the underground tube stations. At the beginning, the packed-in-like-cattle London crowds were jovial and often sang and danced to pass the night. But as the months wore on they sat silently with blank faces as the steady pounding continued overhead.
With emotion that she hadn’t felt before, Langford looked across the many faces in the vast throng of people. This was war — civilian style. The ugly side of war. It was war so distant from her and her work at Bletchley. Until now. She was full of admiration for how Londoners had carried on. She looked one way down the ramp, then the other. Her dizziness seemed to be getting worse. She held her stomach. Something was wrong. Everything began to flow in circles around her.
Then she dropped her suitcase and fainted.
* * * *
Edinburgh, Scotland
The Duke left his office at RAF Turnhouse and headed for the ops room where he heard the news that London was facing a heavy bombing raid. Hamilton knew the Germans would leave his sector alone now because they hardly ever conducted two raids at once.
As he left and climbed into bed in his quarters nearby, the duke wondered what happened to the Messerschmitt. Was it Hess? If so, where was he now? His eyes were just starting to close when his bedside phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Sir, will you please come to the ops room at once?” The night-shift controller asked.
“Why? What’s wrong? Is there an attack?”
“No, sir.”
“Is there another enemy sighting?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m in bed. What’s so damn important? Can’t you take care of it yourself?”
“Well, sir, it’s about the ME-110.”
“I’ll be right there.” Hamilton dressed and walked the hall to the ops room where he saw the controller in person. “What is it?”
“Sir, t
he ME-110 pilot bailed out.”
“He did?” The duke felt a lump in his throat.
“He’s in custody at Maryhill Barracks in Glasgow. He gave his name as Captain Alfred Horn and he wants to speak to you personally.”
Why me? thought Hamilton.
* * * *
RAF Dunhampton, Scotland
“Is he going to make it?” Lampert asked Group Captain Walker in the hall outside Hollinger’s hospital room.
“The doctor doesn’t know. He took bullets to the chest and lung, not to mention a frightful lump to the back of his head. He’s unconscious now, but his breathing and vital signs seem regular.”
“Who shot him?”
“One of the Germans. Hess or the other one.”
“None of this would have happened if we had caught Hess when Denise made contact with him. What did you see?”
“It was getting dark, so it was hard to tell. The ME-110 landed and waited at the end of the runway. Hollinger drove out. Hess was with him, I gather, hiding inside. The next thing I knew there was a flash of gunfire. We drove out but were too late. As near as I figure it, sir, Hess had arrived by sub the same time the pilot did. One shot the other, someone shot Hollinger, then one of them tried to fly out of Britain. Very strange.”
“So, we don’t know who’s in the ME-110?”
“Maybe we will, soon. We just got news the aircraft crash-landed near Eaglesham. The pilot is under guard outside Glasgow.”
“No positive identification?”
“Not yet. He claims to be Captain Alfred Horn and he’s demanding to see Wing Commander the Duke of Hamilton.”
“Hamilton? That’s odd.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where is this Horn now?”
“Maryhill Barracks. That’s not all. There’s the dead body. He was sliced through the heart and shot in the back of the head and face several times from different angles. A little bit of an overkill, wouldn’t you say, sir?”